Auto Suggestions are available once you type at least 3 letters. Use up arrow (for mozilla firefox browser alt+up arrow) and down arrow (for mozilla firefox browser alt+down arrow) to review and enter to select.

Temporarily Out of Stock Online

Overview

They have tried to tame it, shave it, fence it, cut it, dam it, drain it, nuke it, poison it, pave it, and subdivide it," writes Timothy Egan of the West in his new book, but "this region's hold on the American character has never seemed stronger." Lasso the Wind is a moving, funny, and incisive look at the eleven states "on the sunset side of the 100th meridian" that Egan regards as the true West. Fishing rod and notebook in hand, he travels by car and foot, horseback and raft, through a region struggling to find its future direction under both the ideological weight of the past and the commercial threats of the present. He visits the Sky City of Acoma, which may be the oldest continuously inhabited community in America, and then goes to an instant town on the Colorado RiverLake Havasu City, built around the transplanted London Bridge. He meets an outlaw cowboy in New Mexico, grazing his cattle on federal land. From Las Vegas, a sprawling, ever-expanding monument to gaudiness and glitz, to the relatively untouched wilds of Idaho's Bitterroot Mountains, Egan leads us through the world of industrialists, politicians, ranchers, and developers, back to the heart of the land itself to see the wealth and grandeur that have inspired the dreams of generations. Interweaving historical accounts with explorations of the contemporary landscape, Egan shows how and why the region came to its current state. We see why the errors and perils of the past continue to repeat themselves to this day, how enormous reserves of public land are beingsteadily chipped away by commercial interests and the demands of a growing population. But we also learn how some communities manage to avoid repeating these mistakes and to win successes, played out in the land and water, in the struggle between possibility and possession. Lasso the Wind eloquently captures the American West in all its promise, in all its pain, and in all its glory.

Product Details

About the Author

Timothy Egan lives in Seattle.

Hometown:

Seattle, Washington

Date of Birth:

November 8, 1954

Read an Excerpt

Chapter One

Jackson Hole, Wyoming

In early November, snow muffled the Teton Range, forcing the elk
down into the valley and a sudden intimacy on all of us. Outside,
a whisper worked in place of a shout and the great peaks had fresh
personality, bold and showy in the coat of the coming season. It was that
best of all times to be breathing air at eight thousand feet in the Rockies:
the few weeks when life is on the cusp of doing something else and the money
has yet to arrive and put everything out of balance.

I spent the morning trying to get closer to Grand Teton, and the evening
gathered in a circle of people who agreed on nothing about the American
West except that we all loved it. The morning had me feeling bouncy, kind
of infatuated. I dropped into Jackson Hole--the old trapper and Indian
refuge, the place where men who smelled of a three-month affair with
campfire smoke would scrub the creosote from their backsides in a thermal
pool--by Boeing 727. Grand Teton is the only national park that has a
large-runway jet airport inside its borders. You don't come over the rim or
through the valley or past a gateway of gray-shirted park rangers as you
enter this home of the natural heritage. It is strictly "Thank you for flying
Delta" when you arrive in the Hole, as many of us do, falling from thirty
thousand feet in an aluminum cylinder carrying a year's supply of yellow
goldfish crackers.

But from there, the generic and interchangeable are left behind. No
billboards. No hotel ads. No digital traffic reminders. Fences around meadows
are made of wood, split and quartered. The signs just outside the airport are
of cedar, with the words carved into the grain; they are polite and trusting in
a way that only the National Park Service among all government agencies
can still get away with. Please do not feed the animals. Stay on the existing
trails. Enjoy your stay. A cynic is paralyzed. Animals? Trails? Enjoy? Are you
talking to me?

I found a trailhead at sixty-seven hundred feet, the ground covered by
seven inches of snow as light as a tuft of bear grass. Wilderness can cleanse
the toxins from a tarred soul, but it takes several days, at least, for the
antidote to work. I was in the instant-immersion phase, trying to recalibrate,
to forget sea level and the mean politics of the season. I had been around
too many county commissioners on rental horses, the cul-de-sac cowboys
mending fences for the cameras with their soft hands. I had seen
enough senators wearing creased jeans, and ministers blessing snow-making
machines. I had heard too many lies about the "Real West," flimflam and
fraud retold as gilded narrative by people whose grandparents took the land
by force and have been draining the public trough ever since to keep it
locked in a peculiar time warp of history. I needed a land without filter or
interpretation--the West, unplugged.

THE SKIES, now clear, were cluttered with ravens, magpies, and
the occasional red-tailed hawk looking for easy prey in the impressionable
snow. Jackson Hole seemed to have everything that has been enshrined
in Indian petroglyph form or frozen on canvas by Charles Russell. The
place was full of charismatic megafauna, as biologists say in moments of
attempted clarity. Bighorn sheep, moose, and mule deer were just starting to
congregate at the lower elevations, joining an occasional bison. And elk,
after six weeks of bugling and strutting, the males with harems of a dozen
cows or more, the females shameless in their provocations, were ready to put
their sexual appetites aside in search of winter range. The celebrity lawyers,
ski country socialites, and cowboy industrialists had yet to follow a similiar
migratory pattern; they awaited a signal that it was time for the herd to
move.

The Snake River runs through it, gathering snowmelt from the high
Yellowstone plateau just a spit distance west of the Continental Divide and
sending it all on a slow ride to the Pacific. The ribbons of life, from the
Gros Ventre, Flat Creek, and other streams, support beaver, muskrat, trout, and
the ever-stylish-looking herons, strutting the watery runways with those
pencil-thin legs.

I could see flashes of icy gold down below, where the cottonwoods still
held a few leaves. Above me, the great temperamental bulk of Grand Teton,
just under fourteen thousand feet, came out again, lashed by the wind, and
then disappeared behind a cloud wrap. The West is full of mountains
imprinted with pedestrian names. But the French-Canadian fur trappers,
openly lustful, had it right when they named the Tetons for their wet
dreams.

Looking for a little meadow at the base of the upper Tetons, I got tangled
in my thoughts, and wandered. I came upon a ghost forest from a fire,
black skeletons against the snow. The tips of new growth, saplings barely a
foot high, looked up beneath the standing dead. Clouds swooshed up and
over the summits and then settled in--a hint of menace in a shroud of mist.
I was chilled. My pulse quickened as the wind bristled. Snow fell. I was lost.
And I was home.

INDOORS, we argued. We came from big cities and ranches, reservations
and universities, downtown apartments and desert split-levels.
Some of us rode horses, some of us rode mountain bikes. A few people wore
bolo ties around their necks; others used them for shoelaces. We were
Westerners from Connecticut and Westerners from Wyoming. We were from
moss country and saguaro land. We had among us the strains of nationality
and blood conflict that form the West, the long-conquered and the uneasy
victors: Blackfoot Indians who once dominated a broad swath of north
country; Italian and Irish urbanites whose ancestors were the conscripts that
shot native bison herds as their introductory chore in the West and then
deserted the Army for homesteads or gold; Hispanos with traces of conquistadors
and Zunis in their family lines; Mormons who are still curious.

The topic was "The Next Hundred Years in the American West." We
were the storytellers, unsure to a person what the last hundred years had
been all about. But fenced in by dated metaphors, we were struggling to
find a new story to inhabit, a way to live in a West closer to the truth,
neither fairy tale nor a barren replacement. One side was fantasy; the other
was a pit of guilt and banality--Western ho-hum. Where was the sense of
wonder? Whether we spoke of the West of the imagination, the West of open
spaces, or the West of mythology, this region's hold on the American character
never seemed stronger. A person puts on a cowboy hat anywhere in the
world, even if alone in a room, and starts acting differently--sometimes
stupidly, sometimes nobly, but it is a new personality. The land west of the
100th meridian is full of tombstones under which are buried people who
lived longer than any doctor ever gave them a chance to do. "It's the air,"
they used to say, arriving in the desert pallid and hacking up blood. Yes. And
much more.

What is the West, beyond an incongruous grouping of eleven American
states holding basin, range, and plenty of room to hide, a place where people
think that geography alone makes them different? It was, until recently,
a process instead of a place. Teddy Roosevelt's four-volume history of the
West never even got beyond the Mississippi River until the end of the last
book. And the essay that rerouted a caravan of American historians, Frederick
Jackson Turner's 1893 thesis on the death of the frontier, was all about
homesteads and perpetual movement. By that reasoning, the West died
more than a century ago. The Prairie States are flat lands with a separate
personality, but they are not the West. Nor is Texas, the blood of its violent
past coursing through its boundaries; part of the old Confederacy, it is a
state and region unto its own.

If land and religion are what people most often kill each other over, then
the West is different only in that the land is the religion. As such, the basic
struggle is between the West of possibility and the West of possession. On
many days it looks as if the possessors have won. Over the past century and
a half, it has been the same crew, whether shod in snakeskin boots or tasseled
loafers, chipping away at the West. They have tried to tame it, shave it,
fence it, cut it, dam it, drain it, nuke it, poison it, pave it, and subdivide it.
They use a false view of history to disguise most of what they are up to.
They seem to be afraid of the native West--the big, cloud-crushing, prickly
place. They cannot stand it that green-eyed wolves are once again staring
out from behind aspen groves in Yellowstone National Park. They cannot
live with the idea that at least one of the seventeen rivers that dance out
of the western slopes of the Sierra Nevada remains undammed. They are
disgusted that George Armstrong Custer's name has been removed from
the name of the battlefield memorial, the range of the Sioux and Crow and
Arapaho, replaced by a name that gives no special favor to either side: the
Little Bighorn Battlefield. Worse, the person now in charge of the memorial
is an Indian.

But, given a chance, the West will leave most people feeling a sense of
light-headed exuberance. The mountains, the space, the distance from anywhere
that "counts." Who can look at rivers that boil out of the ground, or
Las Vegas at dawn, or the hunchbacked, flute-playing Kokopelli incised on
a side of sandstone, and not laugh? I could not get Grand Teton and those
cartographically incorrect trappers out of my head. Was there still a place in
the next hundred years for someone smelling of dust-caked sweat and animal
blood to come before a panel such as ours and propose naming the
most glorious mountain in our midst, The Big Tit? Or, for that matter, The
Big Gut, a loose translation of "Gros Ventre"?

David McCullough told us about a time when he was researching Roosevelt's
early life on the Dakota Plains. He could not get over the wind;
harsh, howling, it was unrelenting.

"And it's a good thing," a farmer said, straight-faced, to McCullough.
"Because if this wind ever stopped blowing, the chickens would all fall
down."

Curly Bear Wagner, a Blackfoot from Montana, recalled a talk he had
given recently about native culture. Afterward, a member of the audience
approached him with an earnest question.

"How long have you been an Indian?" she asked.

George Horse Capture, of the Gros Ventre Nation, told a similar story.
"A man and his wife, on vacation, were pointing in my direction," he said.
"The man yelled out: `Hey, Martha, come look at this.' I looked around.
Then I realized they were pointing at me. `Here's an Indian--look at this!'"

Of late, I had heard a lot of ranchers compare themselves to Indians, saying
they were being pushed off the land. I was very troubled by this line of
reasoning. In the eye blink of history it took to move Indians to the margins
of their former homeland, the Federal government gave away as much of
the West as it could, until there were no more takers. But first, the new
inhabitants wiped out one of the great natural bounties of all time, the
bison herds that had blotted the range. In the bison's place, they planted a
European animal best suited to an English bog attended by sour-humored
men in tweed. Today, that system is serviced by a handful of United States
senators who hold it up as the high point of Western culture, a belief
grounded in a one-dimensional version of a full-bodied history. Who owns
the West? goes the perennial question. By the plundered-province view, it
may be the last lobbyist to lunch with Senator Larry Craig of Idaho.

There were no whiners in Jackson that November evening. The ranchers
had the mark of high-altitude western workers, with skin-cancer cheeks.
They did not complain about the government or the urbanites who surround
them--86 percent of all Westerners live in a city, the highest proportion
of any region in the country--or the Indians or the wild animals trying
to regain a foothold in their old haunts. Just about weather, the curse of the
rancher.

"The old earth which created us all is disappearing," said Drum Hadley,
a rancher and poet from the Border Country. He seemed perplexed, and
genuinely saddened. The Southwest was being sucked dry, red-earth calcifying
and blowing away as the climate changed into something new and fearful.
Cows were choking the timid streams, but nobody wanted to go the
faux route, giving up the land to work as an ornament in a billionaire's
fantasy.

Beyond our circle, all the troubles of the West were just outside the
window. In Jackson Hole, $5-million residences were being built on spec, and
anything under a million was considered a starter castle. The terraces above
the valley were stuffed with log mansions, some with a dozen fieldstone
fireplaces. A home with twelve hearths is a home without a heart, deeply
confused. There were trophy homes for movie stars, trophy homes for
investment bankers, trophy homes for the idle rich, the hyperactive rich.
But a cop, or a firefighter, or someone hired by the Teton County school
district to teach the children of the trophy homes how to read, could not
afford to live in the valley.

What happened to the old mountain towns of northern Italy, Ernest
Hemingway wrote, was that the rich came in one season and never left.
Money flows to beauty and then attracts more money, pushing out everything
that does not fit. Aspen, Telluride, Park City, Taos, Sandpoint,
Sedona, Jackson Hole, and the place where Hemingway fired a pistol shot
into his mouth, Sun Valley--the golden ghettos of the West might as well
be sealed and gated, even if some of the streets are technically open. In Santa
Fe, there is one real-estate agent for every one hundred people; closing costs
are about as wild as it gets in some people's West.

What is left, what seems inviolate, is public land--turf without title
attached to it, unique among the nations of the world. We sketch our
dreams and project our desires on this American inheritance. And we fight
over it with lawyers and guns and history. Nearly half of all Western land--better
than 500 million acres--is public. I grew up in a big family with little
money, but we had the outdoors: Rock Creek in Montana, Lake Crescent
on the Olympic Peninsula, Upper Priest Lake in Idaho. We were rich. And
only later did I realize why I never had a truly sad day in the outdoors: This
was Wallace Stegner's Geography of Hope.

Not all Westerners appreciate what they are entrusted with, but much of
the rest of the world certainly does. I saw a map of the West published in the
German-language edition of the magazine Geo. It was a contemporary map,
but what it highlighted was the invisible empire of the past: the native tribes
and their homelands, the wild animal herds and their long-ago range, the
silent cities of the Anasazi. The map also showed wildlife refuges, national
parks, and the blank spots protected as formal wilderness. It was everything
the old world of Europe does not have--sections of public land bigger than
some countries, and a past yet to be fully deciphered.

Think of what should never be taken away:

The light that enchanted D. H. Lawrence, who said New Mexico's high
country was "the greatest experience from the outside world that I ever had.
It changed me forever."

The canyonland arches, showing the age lines of many geologic eras;
they convey a random sense of mischief, something that could collapse at
any moment, or in another thousand years.

Joshua trees in the Mojave Desert, looking like discards from the sketchbook
of Dr. Seuss.

North Cascade Mountain alpenglow, in July, when it is the most perfect
place on earth.

Bristlecone pines wrapped in centuries-old embrace with a patch of
rock.

College football in Missoula, under the big "M" on the mountainside,
the Clark Fork rushing by.

Fish that don't come from hatcheries, beasts that weren't hatched in
theme parks, and full-throated thunderstorms.

The shadow of the Front Range at dusk, stretching to the horizon of the
Great Plains.

Above all, the big empty, where humans are insignificant, or at least
allowed to think so.

Thrill to the names--El Dorado, Searchlight, Medicine Bow, Mesa
Verde, Tombstone, Durango, Hole in the Wall, Lost Trail Pass, Nez Perce
National Forest. Active names, implying that something consequential is
going on: the Wind River Range, the Magic Valley, the River of No Return,
the Painted Desert, Wolf Point, Paradise, Death Valley, the Crazy
Mountains.

WE WENT back and forth on the aches that divide Westerners,
talking into the evening. Then Terry Tempest Williams said something that
has stayed with me. She traces her family lineage back five generations to
Brigham Young's day, when Mormons, like prickly pear cacti, were considered
freaks of this land, something you could bring home to the geologic
society in Boston and poke at under a harsh light. We sounded like her family
at a recent reunion in Utah, she said. They fought, scrapped, and
dodged. Her grandfather became upset at the bickering, finally brokering a
temporary peace. He asked, What do we agree on? Two things: they all
loved the land, but the old ways were not working anymore. Perhaps what
the West needs, she said, is a grandfather--some grounding in a common
story, not a mythic one, nor a plunderer's tidied-up view.

Statues are scarce in the West, for good reason: sometimes, it takes
longer for concrete to dry than it does for today's consensus to become
tomorrow's historical heresy. It may be easier to lasso the wind than to
find a sustaining story for the American West. Still, as storytellers it is
our obligation to keep trying.

So I have tried to find a true West at the start of the next hundred years,
leaving the boundaries of the old metaphors in search of something closer to
the way we live. This West needs very little adornment, but it does need a
grandfather. This West is still one of the wildest places on the planet. It is
home to buried cultures as intriguing as the imagined West of pulp fiction.
It is the foundation of societies sprouting overnight in settings where it was
said people could never live, and cities making disastrous errors because
they are misreading the land. It is where Clint Eastwood finally arrived at in
his best Western, Unforgiven, a pig farmer under a hard sky, pouring
rotgut liquor down his throat while he laments how awful it is to kill a man.
And one day this West may no longer be boastful about its worst qualities, or
afraid of its best.

Editorial Reviews

Effete Easterners will possibly want to fly out West, rent a car and follow in Egan's footsteps as he describes zinging around in the wide open spaces. -- New York Times Book Review

Timothy Foote

In the best chapters, Mr. Egan uses the past powerfully, to explain and give dimension to the present. . . .But in between there is too much lassoing of wind, . . . .an often powerful, but flawed look at the American West grappling with its past on the frontier of the 21st century. The New York Times

Sylvester

In a freewheeling, deeply meditative journey across 'the big empty' (the 11 contiguous states west of the 100th Meridian), Egan, the Pacific Northwest correspondent for the New York Times, attempts to understand the American West, a place caught between myth and modernity. Beginning in Jackson Hole, Wyoming, at a gathering of writers, ranchers and Native Americans debating 'the next hundred years in the American West,' Egan sets out across the vast landscape, using a different city as a jumping-off point in each chapter. What emerges is a portrait of the new West constantly at odds with the old: defiant cattlemen fight to preserve their dying industry, passing protective laws in the name of 'custom and culture'; the residents of Butte, Montana, wait for the toxic waste from a huge abandoned copper mine to overflow and destroy the once-prosperous city; and everywhere ambitious communities such as Las Vegas scramble for more of the precious water that would bring life to the desert -- life, that is, in the form of residential complexes with lush grass lawns. Egan's travelogue occasionally ties itself in knots, shifting continuously from past to present in an effort to evoke the multi-layered history of the area. But his love for the land is tangible and his erudition impressive. Alongside tales of Indians ousted from their land and corporate plundering are striking factoids (e.g., Ted Turner now owns 1.5% of the state of New Mexico) and shadowy chapters in history, like the 1857 Mountain Meadow Massacre in St. George, Utah, in which over 120 Arkansas emigrants were murdered by Mormon 'rescuers' in an attack ordered by church officials, according to Egan. If any effort to capture the American West on the printed page is as futile as the title of this book suggests, Egan's sobering and honest picture at least succeeds in conveying its vitality and myriad contradictions.

Publishers Weekly - Publisher's Weekly

A scratchy blend of conservationist and crusader, Egan (Pacific Northwest bureau chief, New York Times) continues his exploration of Western history, country, and customs. But this time, following The Good Rain (LJ 7/90), he expands his horizons to include Wyoming, New Mexico, Arizona, Utah, Nevada, Colorado, Montana, Idaho, and California (in addition to Washington and Oregon). Readers follow him as he searches for pictographs in Utah, fishes in Idaho's Bitterroot Mountains, and visits an ostrich ranch in Colorado. Through these journeys-filled with fascinating facts, unusual encounters, and an abiding concern for the future of America's West--Egan eagerly exposes the worst of Western history, though he fails to provide solutions to any of the problems that continue to plague the Western lands he obviously loves deeply. From the Spanish conquistadors to Brigham Young's Saints, few explorers or settlers escape Egan's uncomfortable scrutiny--and contemporary residents seldom fare better. Recommended for most public libraries.--Janet N. Ross, Washoe Cty. Lib. System, Sparks, NV

Library Journal

A sometimes arch, sometimes curmudgeonly, but always revealing tour of the modern Mountain West. That place, as New York Times Pacific Northwest correspondent Egan (Breaking Blue) delights in showing, trades on the myths of its past. Although the West celebrates stalwart do-gooders, lone heroes, and desperadoes in places like Deadwood and Tombstone, in fact it is and has always been highly corporatized, with a curious boss-driven politics that persists well into the present. The actor Bruce Willis found this out for himself, Egan writes, when, after buying up much of the little Idaho town of Hailey, he decided to launch a ballot initiative against nuclear-waste dumping in the vicinity. 'In the election,' Egan writes with evident glee, 'he was outgunned by fellow Republicans who favor a nuclear presence. He could have learned something from the Copper Kings: they never lost unless it was planned.' Similar clashes between old sensibilities and modern mores fuel much of Egan's narrative. He writes of a New Mexico man who, 'hiding in the woods of custom and culture,' has exploited local anti-government sentiment to defy U.S. Forest Service restrictions on cattle grazing in wilderness areas; of a Colorado entrepreneur who believes the future of Western agriculture lies in ostrich ranching; of the present Interior secretary, Bruce Babbitt, who has 'somewhat meekly' been working to undo environmental damage wrought over the last century; and of out-of-the-way places and people caught up in the rapidly changing region. Throughout, Egan writes with grim humor and thinly disguised anger, the justifiable rage of a native son fed up with the seemingly endless development anddestruction now being visited on the West in the name of progress. Solid reporting and storytelling make this a book of value to anyone interested in what is happening west of the Mississippi.

Kirkus Reviews

"Lasso the Wind is like a good road trip across the West. You drive, you stop to camp, you fall in love, and then you decide to stay. Egan's words are helping to settle the political chaos of this changing landscape. Alongside his sharp eye for details and clarity of mind is an ethical spine that is helping to shape the new West. I'm so glad he's here."--Terry Tempest Williams

"Here is the REAL West of today--some of it still Old West, much of it New--told in wonderful, entertaining style by one of America's most perceptive journalists. Egan is himself a well-rooted Westerner, and we couldn't ask for a better guide to all the excitement and change going on out there today."--Alvin M. Josephy, Jr.

Customer Reviews

Most Helpful Customer Reviews

Lasso the Wind: Away to the New West 3 out of 5based on
0 ratings.
1 reviews.

Guest

More than 1 year ago

Timothy Egan has the kind of writerly power that turns a reader into an instant convert. That was the kind of effect his earlier work, The Good Rain had on me. I reread the book 4 times since its publication in the early nineties. Ever since, I have consistently pronounced Egan my all-time favorite author. Yes, in my book, he ranks up there with Edward Abbey. Not surprisingly, I expected enornomously of his much anticipated follow-up, Lasso the Wind. Alas, this over-written 250-page book is contrived, verbose and monotonous. It is heavy on the history and lacks his earlier magic...I find myself slogging through each page. Still I refuse to give up on Egan, having known his enormous gifts as a writer. I read Lasso from back chapter to front and some how that provides relief from the monotony. I am still half way through the book and find him disappointingly predictable in the way that he so relentlessly champions conservation of the New West over the old economies of ranching and logging. Still, I will recommend Lasso to anyone with a great love of this mythical land of the West. Egan has the power to surprise on occasions, and for that, I'm willing to plough through to the end, or in this instance, to the beginning.

When seven friends gather to welcome retired professor Andrew Basnett to their village in the
English countryside, conviviality soon turns to crime as guests suddenly start dying—and Basnett finds himself seeking a clever killer who’s sure to strike again.

A father must come to terms with his son's death in the war. In Venice
an architecture student commits a crime of passion. A white southern airport loader tries to do a favor for a black northern child. The ordinary ...

A haunting and powerful story about war-torn Africa, a mystical orphan boy, and the power
of narrative to give a chaotic world order. In the hot African night a single gunshot cracks the silence. José Antonio traces the sound to ...

From the modern master of noir, Andrew Vachss, comes this heart-topping and bestselling new thriller
that completely reinvents the Burke series. Urban Outlaw Burke barely survives an attack by a professional hit squad that kills his partner. With a new ...

An instant bestseller when it was published in 1930, this glittering satire of Edwardian high
society features a privileged brother and sister torn between tradition and a chance at an independent life. Sebastian is young, handsome, moody, and the heir ...

Hollis Clayton is in trouble. His wife has decamped for the summer, leaving him to
pursue his increasingly overwhelming compulsions: drinking; spying on neighbors; worrying about the fate of an abducted local girl; avoiding his editor, who is on the ...

Forty years after his Hitler: A Study in Tyranny set a standard for scholarship of
the Nazi era, Lord Alan Bullock gives readers a breathtakingly accomplished dual biography that places Adolf Hitler's origins, personality, career, and legacy alongside those of ...

In this strong, appealing collection, Nancy Willard shares her passion for observing the mysteries of
the natural world, particularly the flora and fauna of Cape Cod and the Hudson Valley, where many of these poems are set. We see, through ...